




























) v 4 -or %f» *^yfw#r» , ^ v 




0° .^l- °o 
















• O 



^ 














rf £ ^ 
^ A ... «* 




> ^* 













• s 












°o. 












MY IRELAND 



/n^c/ hjen^^xx^ f ytUMju-jA CamJL 




jO 






^ . * A 



\ \\ \ 



Copyright, 1917, by 
J. F. C. MacD'ONNELL 



DEC 13 1917 

'©CI.A480550 



f- 



It is here that the book begins 

and it is here that a prayer is asked 

for the soul of the scribe who wrote it for 

the glory of God, 

the honor of Erinn 

and the pleasure of the woman 

who came from Both — 

his mother. 



"I have loved Erinn of the Waters, all that is in 
it but its government." 

— St. Columcille. 



CONTENTS 

My Ireland 13 

The Dublin Poets 14 

The Stilly Sea 14 

She of the Musical Names 15 

The Deaf-Mute Sermon 15 

Ballad of the Bees 16 

Rose Kavanagh 20 

The Foster Mother 20 

The Happy Thistles 21 

Beyond Rathkelly 22 

The Cuckoo 23 

The War-Pipes 23 

The Riders 24 

Darby the Rhymer 24 

By Clodagh's Stream 25 

The Field of the Fort 26 

Fear 27 

Francey O'Kane 27 

Brigid 29 

The Scribe 30 

Nature off in Erinn 31 

The Little Visitors 32 

Rejected Wings 33 

[7] 



The Standing Stones 34 

The Metamorphosis 34 

Blind O'Cahan 35 

Wine 37 

The Unworldly Lover 37 

Mary's Island -37 

The Seekers 39 

The Virgin's Slumber Song 40 

The Little House 41 

Kerry's Kingdom 42 

The Irish 43 

The Quest 44 

The Old Priest 45 

Gleann-na-smol 45 

The Gael's Conversion 46 

The Baby of St. Brigid 47 

On Eribeg Island 48 

The Empty Grave 49 

The Gap of Dunloe 50 

The Lily 51 

Before I Stumbled 51 

The Irish Missionaries 52 

Words and Music 52 

The Swallow 53 

In Carrigeen 53 

The Red-Hearted Daisy 55 

Bog-Flowers 55 

The Leave-Taking 56 

Gleann Maghair 57 

[8] 



Days Remote 57 

Tears I Have Shed 58 

Unknown 58 

Waterford Wishes 59 

My Neighbor 60 

The Scotstown Visitor 60 

Perfection 61 

We Both Set Out 61 

Near Ballyrenan 62 

The Brown Little Bee 62 

The Master Soul 63 

Keimaneigh 64 

Dublin in the Dark 64 

Maureen Oge 65 

In Earth or Sea 65 

The Winds 66 

These Whims 67 

Star-Shadows 67 

Before the Summer 67 

The Wanderer 68 

The Nun 69 

The Crow's Nest 69 

The Twilight 70 

Connamara 70 

Swan-Songs 71 

The Three Songs 72 

The Dead Nun 72 

When Youth Was 73 

Ita . . . 73 

[9] 



Fairy Park 74 

Truth and Love 75 

The Silent Clock 75 

Sleep 76 

The Holy Three y6 

Alchemy yy 

Ballad of the Mother's Revenge yy 

Passing the Chapel 79 

The Two Fires 80 

Ballad of Douglas Bridge 81 

That Starry Thing 82 

The Husbandman 82 

Mac Sweeney the Rhymer 83 

The Builders 84 

The Pubble Ghost 85 

The Celt 85 

Ballad of Marget 87 

Beauty 90 

The Green Road 90 

Ballad of the Two Counties 92 

The Drums 94 

Father Hearn 94 

Not Always 95 

Newtown's Graves 95 

The Ringaskiddy Child 96 

Nest and Hive 96 

A Fairy Sings 97 

The Total Day 97 

The Masters 98 

[10] 



The Domes 98 

Unhindered 99 

Withering 99 

The Grey Ghost 99 

In Cappagh Parish 100 

The Poetical Saints 101 

O Part of Me 101 

Star-sheen 101 

Ballad of Friendship 102 

The Solar Road 105 

In Dreamy Valleys 105 

The Yew-Tree 106 

The Fragrant Name 106 

The Holy Hands 107 

The Grave of Gerald Griffin 107 

The Simpleton 109 

The Three Friends 109 

To the Angel Axel no 

The Greatest Feast in 

Baronscourt in 

The Booted Hens . . 112 

A Laborer 113 

To Father Prout 113 

A Waterford Wonder 114 

The Song-Maker 114 

The Red-Breast 115 

The Messengers 115 

The Two Mountains 116 

The Grave of Michael Davitt 117 

[11] 



To Ossian 118 

The Parish Poet 118 

Ireland of the Twilights . . . . . . .119 

The Poem-Prayers of the Gael 120 

Tyronian Thoughts 120 

The Snake 121 

By the River Suir 121 

A Little Story 122 

The Window of St. Agnes 123 

Hope's Song 123 

By the Way of the Wind 124 

The Provinces 124 

Notes 126 



[12I 



MY IRELAND 

My Ireland is mine for all 

The ghostly chiefs who ride for Her ; 
The women still at Limerick's wall, 

And the poets who provide for Her. 
The ghostly chiefs who ride for Her, 
The poets who provide for Her, 
My Ireland is mine for all 

The Dublin men who died for Her. 

My Ireland is mine in truth 

For all the saints who clung to Her ; 
The patriots who died in youth, 

And the harpers who have sung to Her. 
The holy saints who clung to Her, 
The harpers who have sung to Her, 
My Ireland is mine in truth 

Because I would be hung for Her. 

My Ireland is wholly mine 

For all the Lovers shot for Her : 

O God may Love and Death define 
The poems I begot for Her ! 

The Lovers who were shot for Her, 

The poems I begot for Her, 

My Ireland is wholly mine 

Because this world is not for Her. 
[13] 



THE DUBLIN POETS 

They called their Love with the Sound 

Of a Harp in vain, 
For the heart of Erinn was bound 

By the Clinks of a Chain ; 
But the soul of her is free, 

And they knew she would come, 
When they played their Poetry 

In the Roll of a Drum. 

God ! that her heart should fail, 

That her soul, O Lord, 
Should be weeping now for each Gael 

Whose song is a Sword 
Since they called their Love ; but she 

Came on, as comes 
This dream of her to me 

With muffled drums. 



THE STILLY SEA 

My Love has crossed an Ocean, 

O'er which no breezes blow, 
And I would it had the motion 

Of but an ebb and flow. 

My Love is o'er a Water, 

A calm and tideless sea, 

And I would that I had taught her 

To come in dreams to me. 

[14] 



SHE OF THE MUSICAL NAMES 

No instrument is friendly with my hand, 
For savage strings by me were never tamed ; 
Nor have these lips a lyric ever framed 

Befitting Erinn, long my Ireland. 

And yet the smouldering soul of me is fanned 
To a fiery passion, willingly inflamed, 
When some old Gaelic melody is named 

Before the notes come blowing from the band. 

O Lady, whom the bards call Kathaleen, 
Sweet Banba of the silky mantle's sound, 
And Fodla of the whisper that inflames ; 

You are to me that rare dark Rosaleen, 
For whom I would be singing poems, found 
In the numerous-noted music of your names. 



THE DEAF-MUTE SERMON 

In silence which no weighted sound could plumb, 

I sat before the pulpit, while a son 

Of canonized Ignatius deftly spun 
A sermon with quick fingers and a thumb ; 
And seated there among the deaf and dumb 

It seemed to me, remembering Babylon 

Of the many living languages, that none 
Became so much that Stilly State to come: 

For at the Benediction, music pealed 

A chant of mighty chords, and suddenly 
[15] 



The Cleric to his only hearer sang, 
As sung a lark one distant morn to me 

O'er the Deaf and Tongueless lying in their field, 
While the Irish bells of Limerick loudly rang. 



BALLAD OF THE BEES 1 

Beneath the oaks of Oriel 

In times now out of mind, 
There lived a holy Cleric who 

For knowledge ever pined. 

For he was always in the woods, 
And there among the trees 

His soul was often lost within 
Wild Nature's mysteries. 

Upon a pretty Summer day 
While larks were high and loud, 

A Christian lay upon his bed 
With one hand in his shroud. 

So with the Blessed Flesh of Christ 

Beneath his mantle's fold, 
The Cleric took the softest fields 

For grey he was and old. 

As on he went by a fragrant hedge, 
Most suddenly he saw 



An alien swarm of bees that hung 
From the branches of a haw. 



[16] 



"Now," said the Cleric, "verily 
Strange foreigners I've found." 

And saying so he took the pyx 
And laid it on the ground. 

And saying so, he quickly cast 

His mantle on the limb 
From which he took the noisy swarm 

That seemed so strange to him. 

And saying so, he wondered much 

As to his cell he went, 
Where long he tried to think of where 

He left the Sacrament. 

Now badly went that deed with him 

And deeply he did pray, 
And full of heart he fretted through 

Four seasons and a day. 

One morn — a pretty day it was — 
While larks were high and loud, 

The Cleric lay upon his bed 
With one hand in his shroud. 

And unto him an Angel came 
With a Dawn-star in each eye, 

Clad in the green that is unknown 
Save on a morning sky. 
[i7] 



"I bring you peace," the Angel said, 
And a bell rang in each word ; 

"O Cleric do you mind the hour 
When Nature was your Lord?" 

"With shame and sorrow well I do," 
Replied the dying man ; 
Then the Angel in a tuneful voice 
This story strange began. 

"It happened once a swarm of bees 
From good St. Baroc's ground, 
Was captured by a Cleric who 
Would study what he found." 

"But while he knelt at holy prayer 

They flew as one away, 
And settled 'neath a hedge of haws 
Where Christ's dear Body lay :" 

"Where lay the Blessed Flesh of Christ 
Within a pyx of gold, 
Left in the hurry of his thoughts 
By someone grey and old." 

"A comb they made around the Host, 
And in the little hive 
They built a chapel all of wax 
And waxen altars five." 



[18] 



"And bees were set before the shrine 
To guard that holy place, 
Where dewy webs of gossamer 
Are spread like altar-lace." 

"And there each scented flower is 
A fragrant chalice now, 
Where breezes blow such incense as 
Comes from a haw-thorn bough." 

"For nothing came a-near the hive 
Save children in their play, 
And what the bees found 'neath the hedge 
They guard until this day." 

"Now God be praised," the Cleric cried, 
And high his breast did heave ; 

" Tis what I think that holy sight 
Would make most men believe." 

"For the pagan Gaels have open hearts 
To which God needs no keys, 
And their souls are often lost within 
Wild Nature's mysteries." 

"So I shall preach that pretty tale, 
For I would have it told — " 
But a broken bell rang in each word 
For grey he was and old. 
[19] 



ROSE KAVANAGH 

(1859-1891) 

O slumbering Poet, how could I 

Who travel thoughtfully alone, 
Be on my dreams and pass you by 

In your Tyrone? 

For you have sung of much to me 
In the Womanful of Song you gave 

To the patriotic memory 
Of Emmet's grave. 

And I would sing of much to you 
In the Spiritful of Lyrics, brought 

Through Ulster as I travel to 
Your grave in thought. 

For, slumbering Poet, I would thrill 

Your dreams, as you have thrilled my own, 

Rose Kavanagh of Knockmany Hill 
In our Tyrone. 



THE FOSTER MOTHER 

Old Mother Ireland, waiting for me 

With a star in your soul and a song in your breast, 
I shall come when the calm is abroad on the sea, 

As a seeker of rest. 
And when I am bound for you, Motherly One, 

[20] 



May the star and the song be the light and the 

sound 
That shall guide me between the green sea and 

the sun 
To a grave in your ground ! 

Old Foster Mother who blessed me at birth, 

With the Faith and the Music still mine, as my 
breath, 
I shall come when the calm is abroad on the earth 

As a dreamer of Death. 
And when the poor dreamer at last is at rest, 

May the Gift that he kept and the Gift he would 
keep, 
Be a Star for his soul and a Song for his breast, 

When he rises from Sleep ! 



THE HAPPY THISTLES 2 

The downy thistles ride the breeze 
O'er blossoms of the apple trees, 
With the dusty dandelions gone 
To overtake the ceanaban. 

O Heart be still and never mind 
The flossy forms that ride the wind, 
For white they are, nor have they sinned, 
And so their world is free as wind. 

[21] 



BEYOND RATHKELLY 

As I went over the Far Hill, 

Just beyond Rathkelly, 
— Och, to be on the Far Hill 

O'er Newtonstewart Town ! 
As I went over the Far Hill, 

With Marget's daughter Nellie, 
The night was up and the moon was out, 

And a star was falling down. 

As I went over the Far Hill, 

Just beyond Rathkelly, 
— Och, to be on the Far Hill 

Above the Bridge o' Moyle ! 
As I went over the Far Hill, 

With Marget's daughter Nellie, 
I made a wish before the star 

Had fallen in the Foyle. 

As I went over the Far Hill, 

Just beyond Rathkelly, 
— Och, to be on the Far Hill 

With the hopes that I had then ! 
As I went over the Far Hill, 

I wished for little Nellie, 
And if a star were falling now 

I'd wish for her again. 



[22] 



THE CUCKOO 

A Sound but from an Echo made, 
And a Body wrought of colored Shade, 
Have blent themselves into a bird, 
But seldom seen, and scarcely heard. 



THE WAR-PIPES 

The Celt is feminine, being strong 
In Love and Hatred, which his Song 
Has nursed with lyrics, dewy-sweet, 
And ballads, strong as bitter sleet. 

The Celt is feminine, being much 
In love with Nature, since a touch 
Of the Irish wind first struck a spark 
Of Music from the silent dark. 

The Celt is feminine, for he 
Would use the power of poetry 
To make the Tyrant realize 
That a Martyr's music never dies. 

The dreamy Celt is feminine, 
But when this Gaelic heart of mine 
Hears hoofs and mustered music, then 
The male in me is as nine men. 
[23] 



THE RIDERS 

Between the womanly moon tonight 
And the manly mountains, dwell 

Such Fallen Ones as were of Light 
But are not now of Hell. 

Nor are They of the Human Kind, 

Nor of the Beast are They ; 
The Fairy Folk who shall ride the wind 

Until the Judgment Day. 



DARBY THE RHYMER 3 

I lay it on the Holy Book, 
That all the burning stars, that look 
Their brightest in the whitest frost. 
Are dull indeed, to what I lost. 

For she whose eyes are brighter than 
The planets that the Poets plan, 
Has made her bargain fast and hard, 
With Darby Fay the rambling bard. 

If I could sing like Darby Fay 
I'd break the bargain, faith, today, 
For I would put in verses sweet, 
The measured music of her feet : 

And I would weave among the lines, 
Her sunny tresses, like the vines 



[24] 



The holy monk in Mellery paints, 
Among the psalms and pictured saints. 

And having such a song, I'd leave 
The trade of talk, and I would weave 
My soul within the singing rann, 
Until the Music seemed the Man. 

But Darby Fay was born with skill 
Of pen and tongue, while I am still 
The man she left me — she the dame 
Who took the heart and left the name. 

And so upon the Book I lay 
The truth concerning Darby Fay ; 
Whose shadow has been cast across 
The starry eyes that light my loss. 



BY CLODAGH'S STREAM 4 

I met a Fairy in the Dawn 
As supple as a slender rush, 

For she had her dancing slippers on 
And she had the ankles of a thrush. 

The pollen from her red lusmores 
Had waxed a web of gossamer, 

And all the music out of doors 
Began to play a tune for her. 
[25] 



Each leaf was moving on its twig, 

And twigs upon their branches shook, 

While the Fairy stepped a Gaelic jig 
I cannot find in any book. 

And thrushes up among the oaks 

Sang morning songs with such a grace, 

That the earthly echoes seemed to coax 
The sky-larks from their heavenly place. 

O ! gaily did the Fairy dance 

On the web beneath the red lusmores, 

Nor did she see the sun advance 

To the music heard but out of doors. 

So the cuckoo called the merry Elf, 
And I awoke by Clodagh's stream ; 

Yet, if I had a dream itself, 

I did not have a deaf man's dream. 



THE FIELD OF THE FORT 5 

I stood outside the lios, 
By my dewy shadow dark 
Sowing corn, 
While Nature threw a kiss, 
In the likeness of a lark, 
To the Morn. 

I stood outside the rath, 

Longing for you as you passed 

[26] 



Through Dunmead ; 
And as you walked the path, 

There were scattered kisses cast 
With the seed. 

Tis I'll be in Dunmead, 

When the corn conceals the lios, 
Cailin Deas; 
And since I've sown the seed, 
Surely I shall reap a kiss 
As you pass. 

For 'tis I'll be near the fort, 
When the kisses and the corn 
Are ripe as noon ; 
And the starry eyes I'll court, 
Are the stars that shall adorn 
The harvest moon. 

FEAR 

The maiden Fear whom men call base, 
While passing stared me in the face ; 
But her eyes were pure and chastely fair, 
For the glance of God had entered there. 

FRANCEY O'KANE 6 

The right hand of Death has been red since the 

night 
It dishonored old Dragish, by proving its might 
[27] 



On the clan of O'Cahan, which sings a refrain, 
Lamenting the loss of young Francey O'Kane. 

That he should be slain by a bloody right hand, 
Is a fact that his people shall ne'er understand, 
For the men of O'Cahan oft fell in their zeal, 
Supporting the strong Scarlet Hand of O'Neill. 

But let it be known to the men of the Creeve, 
That Death masqueraded on that cruel eve, 
In a sash of blue silk and with this for to fadge, 
His raw second rib wore a bright Orange badge. 

Nor did He come into the dwelling that night, 
With the swift stilly wings of the carrion kite, 
But rather with curses and blasphemies loud, 
And a hatred of heart for O'Cahan the proud. 

The youth was as mild as the saint of his name, 
But no one was stronger when strength was the 

game ; 
Yet who can be milder than Death, when He likes, 
And who can be stronger than Death, when He 

strikes? 

For since Death went abroad in an Orange disguise, 
The heart of Young Francey in old Dragish lies 
'Neath Nature's own green, which She cannot sur- 
pass, 
For the Northern shamrocks are greener than grass. 

[28] 



Ochone ! that the flowers should hide in the haw, 
And the finch should know sorrow in sunny Ard- 

straw ! 
For the birds in the bushes now sing a refrain, 
Lamenting the loss of young Francey O'Kane. 

BRIGID 

(The Goddess of Poetry who lived of old above the 
Gael in the glorious evening clouds.) 

On a peak in Donegal I stood 

With a wish that I could fly, 
And the wind it blew the soul of me 

To the edge of the evening sky. 
"Ho, Ho, my heart, Och, heavy heart, 

Ho, Ho, my heart !" said I. 

And there among the colored clouds 

A sky-lark met with me, 
Where the wind had blown the soul of him 

To the Muse of Poetry. 
"Ho, Ho, my heart, Och, heavy heart, 

Ho, Ho, my heart !" sang he. 

For Brigid of the Arts was there, 

— A mystic maiden young — 
Whose soul was lifted by the winds 

To strike the harp they strung. 
"Ho, Ho, my heart, Och, heavy heart, 

Ho, Ho, my heart !" she sung. 
[29] 



And there it was on lunar lyres 

That I heard her Poets play, 
For the wind had taken their willing souls 

From the sorrows of their day. 
"Ho, Ho, my heart ! Och, heavy heart, 

Ho, Ho, my heart!" sang they. 

On a peak in Donegal I stood 

And wondered being awake, 
At the Wind, the Lark and the Gaelic Muse 

And the music that they make. 
"Ho, Ho, my heart, Och, heavy heart, 

They sing but for your sake." 



THE SCRIBE 

O Dreams, illuminating Dreams, 
My soul is like that volume rare, 

The Brook of Kells, with all its schemes 
Of color, wrought by skillful care. 

The shadowed Past in purple shines, 
Limned not for any earthly wage, 

And master-letters crown the lines 
Gilt with the golden tint of age. 

It is a tome in which You paint 
The learned Flann of Monasterboice, 

Tirconnell's chief and Derry's saint, 
And Ceirnan of old Clonmacnoise. 

[30] 



The features of the chief are there 

Who drove the Danes from Dublin's strand ; 

Strong Maeve of Connacht fierce and fair, 
And the Monarch of the Wine-Red Hand. 

And there are leaves in blue and green, 
Which show a banner high above 

Each sacred spot and battle scene, 
Where Life was sacrificed to Love. 

The setting sun in scarlet rage 

O'er Tara's Hill is plainly drawn ; 

Yet I have but to turn a page 
To see a picture of the Dawn. 

For in this volume of my soul, 
Are views of Erinn neath the skies 

From where the rising billows roll, 
To where the rolling hillocks rise. 

O Dreams, illuminating Dreams, 
My soul is like the Book of Kells, 

And You, as skillful Monks it seems, 
Work in my heart's unworthy cells. 

NATURE OFF IN ERINN 

Hilly Isle in the mystery 
Of a pagan Yesterday, 
The Fairies of the mind of me 
[3i] 



In Munterloony play ; 
And as they dance beneath the haws, 

On the stones of Craigatuke, 
They can hear the cricket's small applause, 

Re-echoed off in Crook. 

Dewy Isle of the sacred hills, 

That murmur echoes low, 
Dumb dreams of mine sail down the rills, 

Which creep through Aherlow ; 
And as they pass, between the banks, 

Meandering along, 
They hear the thrushes giving thanks 

To Nature in a song. 

Holy Isle in a woeful sea, 

That beats its breast in prayer, 
The Angels of my Memory 

Now flutter over there, 
To Cavan of the foggy calm, 

Where Tullygarvey's glen 
Contains a robin's twilight psalm 

And a corn-crake's deep "Amen." 

THE LITTLE VISITORS 

Paul and Rosaleen Marie, 
Little children known to me 
For but a busy moment, here 
In this my unrecorded Sphere ; 

[32] 



I wondered much, and wondering, 
All thoughts of toil at once took wing, 
On meeting such a perfect pair 
Of little aneels unaware. 



i t>' 



Rosaleen Marie and Paul, 

If on me you should ever call 

On that not impossible Autumn day 

When I shall be unsound and grey, 

I hope to see you as a pair 

That have kept your promises ; the fair 

Two promises you made to me, 

Of Beauteousness and Nobility. 

O little boy of the Pauline brow, 

O little girl, with the lily bough 

Of Mary's bloom against your cheek, 

You brought to me the dreams that seek 

Such music, and such poetry, 

As might describe the joy in me, 

On meeting such a perfect pair 

Of little angels unaware. 

REJECTED WINGS 

Upon their shoulders Angels wear 
A hazel veil of wondrous hair, 

To hide the plan 
By which the Flesh was pinioned, ere 
Our Adam fell from Eden fair 

To earth — a wingless man. 



[333 



THE STANDING STONES 7 

Here lie between the mountain sod 
Of Ulster and the stars of God, 
Three hundred clansmen of a race 
Whose Red Right Hand once held the mace 
Of the King of Ireland. 

Their boulders tall have ceased to show 
What clan of Gael lies here below ; 
Yet the aged folk have handed down 
Its name, but not, alas ! the Crown 
Nor the Strength of Ireland. 

O ye who pass this mountain way, 
Who have the thought and time to pray, 
See that the souls of these Irish here 
Shall enter Heaven, with a cheer 
For the Faith of Ireland ! 

THE METAMORPHOSIS 

Such is my love I fain would sing 
Far sweeter than your dearest bard, 

But from my songless bosom spring 
The flowers of this chapel-yard. 

Such is my love I fain would tell 
The rarest rhyme you ever heard, 

But in the swallow I now dwell 
A soul within a songless bird. 



[34] 



Such is the love that I have found ! 

Land of whom I cannot sing, 
May flowers ever grace this ground, 

Caressed by yonder swallow's wing! 

BLIND O'CAHAN 

Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

A harper of Tyrone, 
Has gone to Alba of the Scots 

To play before the throne. 

"Rory Dall O'Cahan !" 

Loud heralds now proclaim : 

"The harper of the soothing hand 
Whose fingers toy with fame." 

"Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

1 would have you charm the Court, 
With the music of your native land 

So famous by report." 

Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

He played before the King, 

And the music sounded like a breeze 
Of laughter-loving Spring. 

Rory Dall O'Cahan 

Sang verses soft and kind, 
And the music sounded like a breeze 
From the World above the wind. 
[35] 



Rory Dall O'Cahan 

Plucked at the woeful wires, 
And the music sounded like a breeze 

From troubled thorns and briers. 

Rory Dall O'Cahan 

Then struck a battle strain, 
And the music sounded like a breeze 

From the castle of O'Kane. 

'Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

Those blind eyes ill become 
Your brilliant soul, and for the want 
Of just praise I am dumb." 

"Rory Dall O'Cahan," 

Said one of Scotland's Lords, 
"His Grace, the King has praised you well, 

With a royal choice of words." 

Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

Arose with ready tongue : 
"A greater man than Scotland's King 
Has praised the songs I've s© sung." 

"Rory Dall O'Cahan, 

Pray who is he and where?" 
"My dauntless chief," replied the bard, 

"O'Neill of Ulster, Sire !" 

[36] 



Rory Dall O'Cahan 

Has gone to Ireland, 
But dumb and idle is his harp 

And idle is his hand. 

For Rory Dall O'Cahan 

Has lost each finger nail, 
And the jealous Scots who clipped them off 

Might well conceal the tale. 

WINE 

Wine to the weak and to those unsound ; 

Ale to the strong and able ; 
But the Cup of Care must be passed around 

To every one at the table. 

THE UNWORLDLY LOVER 

Impatient is the earthly lover. 

But She, who is in love with Love, 
Is patient as the stars above Her, 

That shine neath brighter stars Above. 

MARY'S ISLAND 

(In Massapequa, L. I.) 
A Dreamer of things, 

That can only be found 

Where the sound 
Of the angels is heard by the lark, 
Once came from a city 



[37] 



Too small for his dreams, 
To an open land pretty 
With rillets and streams 
In Massapequa. 

There by the shore 

Of a sky-spotted lake, 

Gulls shake 
From their pinions the salt of the sea, 
And there with emotion 

I lingered, the while 
These birds of the ocean 

Flew over an isle 

In Massapequa. 

Above Mary's Isle, 

They appeared to the bard 

Like the guard 
Of swift angels the larks often meet 
Beyond Kerry's valleys 

Or over Lough Erne ; 
But a lark never dallies 

O'er meadow or burn 

In Massapequa. 

The waters were filled 

With a sky's fallen blue, 

And the view 
Of that island was dreamily fair 
To one who could wander 

[38] 



Away in a thought, 
While he grew all the fonder 
Of what his dreams brought 
To Massapequa. 

O ! fair was that isle, 

As it waited at noon 

For the moon 
With her island to mirror it's form ; 
But fairer than islands 

In lake or in sky, 
Were the heather-clad highlands 

That seemed to be high 

O'er Massapequa. 

For a dreamer of things, 

That can only be found 

Where the sound 
Of the angels is heard by the larks, 
Still dreams ; but the shadows 

Of cities now blur 
The mystical meadows 

And things as they were 

In Massapequa. 

THE SEEKERS 

These are the things that seek the light, 
The moon, the sun-flower, and the soul, 
Along the day and in the night, 

And through the years no suns control. 
[39l 



THE VIRGIN'S SLUMBER SONG 

Shoon-a-shoon, 
I sing no psalm 

Little Man, 
Although I am 
Out of David's 

House and Clann. 
Shoon-a-shoon 
I sing no psalm. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 

Blowing of pine ; 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Lowing of kine : 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Though even in sleep, 
His ear can hear 

The shamrock s creep. ) 

Moons and moons 
And suns galore, 

Match their gold 
On Slumber's shore, 
With Your glittering 

Eyes that hold, 
Moons and moons 
And suns galore. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 
Oceans of earth ; 



[40] 



Hush-a-hoo, 

Motions of mirth : 

Hush-a-hoo, 

Though over all, 

His ear can hear 
The planets fall.) 

O'er and o'er 
And under all, 

Every star 
Is now a ball, 
For Your little 

Hands that are 
O'er and o'er 
And under all. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 

Whirring of wings ; 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Stirring of strings : 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Though in slumber deep, 
His ear can hear 

My Song of Sleep.) 

THE LITTLE HOUSE 

Bathing birds beneath a spout 
Of mountain water screened about, 
With supple ferns and tufts of grass, 
Are on the highway I would pass. 
[41] 



And little bows of colored foam, 
Arching mountain streams that roam, 
Beneath a bridge of stone and moss, 
Are in the meadow I would cross. 

But the little house where I would call, 
Has a ruined roof and a tumbled wall ; 
Beyond that streamy meadow's grass, 
On the road that I shall never pass. 



KERRY'S KINGDOM 

Majestic Nature wields Her wand 

In Kerry's Kingdom ; 
For the mountains like great monarch stand 

In Kerry's Kingdom : 
And the Queen of Lakes rules all alone, 
With isles like gems about Her zone, 
While royal ferns surround Her throne 

In Kerry's Kingdom. 

Princely men are living there 

In Kerry's Kingdom ; 
With every maid a princess fair 

In Kerry's Kingdom : 
But like the tale of royal Meath, 
Her Chieftains now lie cold beneath, 
The handsome purple of the heath 

In Kerry's Kingdom. 



[42] 



Yet what of all the slavery 

In Kerry's Kingdom ! 
And what of those who would be free 

In Kerry's Kingdom ! 
And what of One, who once a slave 
Returned to free a nation brave — 
Och, surely Patrick, you can save 

Old Kerry's Kingdom! 

For you must know the faith of those 

In Kerry's Kingdom ; 
Whose hope blooms like a monthly rose 

In Kerry's Kingdom : 
And surely you cannot forget 
The love, to which you are in debt, 
Of those who lie out in the wet 

Of Kerry's Kingdom. 

O the Queen of Nature rules the reeks 

In Kerry's Kingdom ; 
For snow like ermine clothes the peaks 

In Kerry's Kingdom : 
But the King of All has larks that fly, 
As messengers from Him on High, 
To the living Gael and those who lie 

In Kerry's Kingdom. 

THE IRISH 

With a gentle Hand 
God made the Gael 
[43] 



For that fair land 

Of Innisfail, 
By angels planned. 

A child is he 

With an aged smile 
Of mystery, 

In the oldest isle 
Of an ancient sea. 

And He Who made 
The Gael is kind 

To the yew-tree's shade 
And the dusty wind, 

Where the old are laid 

In that strange land 

Of Innisfail, 
By angels planned 

For the childish Gael 
Who holds God's Hand. 



THE QUEST 

Off to the Seven Eternities 

My spirit bent her sail, 
But a silent tide and a singing breeze 

Won her the shores of the Gael. 

Around the stormy Arran shore 
She roamed to find her rest, 



[44] 



But a scarlet wind from the ocean bore 
Her on to Hy Brasail the Blest. 

Off in the Land of the Ever Young 

She longs for the company 
Of the vacant heart she left among 

The wrack of an open sea : 

And I would that the Seven Eternities 
Were as near to the Gael today, 

As the misty Isle and the many seas 
That won my soul away. 

THE OLD PRIEST 

Weary not of ever-present Time, 

That holds the Real Presence of God's Love, 
But rather with the secret things sublime 

Of Nature and the dustiness thereof ; 

He would be going down the grassy ways, 
In search of his Eternity as one, 

Who is weary not of these light-laden days, 
But rather of the high Symbolic Sun. 

GLEANN-NA-SMOL 

From the mountain of high Castlekelly, 
I came by the Dodder's swift streams, 

And there on the bank stood my Ellie 
Like a fancy surrounded with dreams ; 
[45] 



She was singing a song I had written 

To the music of Ireland's soul, 
And from that very morn I've been smitten 

By the echoes of sweet Glenasmole. 

They have called it the Vale of the Thrushes, 

Since Ossian first roamed o'er its green, 
But still was each bird in the bushes 

On the morning I met with Eileen ; 
Whose voice seemed to me like the ringing 

Of bells neath the deep Dodder's roll, 
And for years I have heard but the singing 

Of echoes in far Glenasmole. 

Perhaps 'tis the words of my lover 

Which call me to Dublin again, 
Perchance 'tis the hills which above her 

Cast note after note o'er the glen ; 
But be it the songs of my making, 

The singer or Ireland's soul, 
I'll be off to the thing that is taking 

Me over to far Glenasmole. 



THE GAEL'S CONVERSION 

He saluted the shaft-bearing Sun with his sword, 
When the god of his fathers arose in the Morn, 

But that day over Erinn the Blood of his Lord 
Was shed in the sun-set which stars now adorn. 

[46] 



THE BABY OF ST. BRIGID 

Since first the beams of Summer lit 
The world to gladden the Infinite, 
No maiden walked in Erinn fair 
Like good St. B rigid of green Kildare. 

For there was more in the eyes of her 

Than human light, and her tresses were 

As the beams that dance on an Easter Morn, 

When the Life of the World from Death is born. 

Upon a day as B rigid prayed 
In an ecstasy, a Babe was laid 
On her open arms by Angels three, 
Who stood to guard the mystery. 

Now being wise in Faith she knew 
The little Child to be the Jew 
Whom Patrick called the Living God, 
The Native-Born of every sod. 

And being wise in Hope she kissed 
The dimples in her Darling's fist, 
And being wise in Love she sung 
A lullaby in her ancient tongue. 

Then the Angels guarding the mystery 
Of a sleeping Babe on a maiden's knee, 
Bent low to her in whispering joy: 
"Hail ! Foster-mother of Mary's Boy !" 
[47] 



"Since you have sung Him into sleep 
We promise for to come and peep 
Into the dreams of every child, 
By Erinn's slumber-songs beguiled." 

And even yet in Ireland, 
The slumbering babe with dimpled hand 
Would clutch the dreams where Angels peep, 
Since Brigid sang her Babe to sleep. 



ON ERIBEG ISLAND 

Fair Maeve for whom I long in vain, 

Had hair like golden rye ; 
Upon her cheeks was the berry's stain, 

And the color of her eye 
Was between the blue of a robin's egg, 

And the deeper blue of the bay, 
That bore me off from Eribeg 

Where I would be today. 

A thought of her is like a dream, 

So sweet she was and bright, 
And dreams of her to my spirit seem 

Like visions lost in light. 
Yet darker than a robin's egg, 

And lighter than the sea, 
Was the blue of an eye in Eribeg 

Where I shall never be. 



[48] 



O Maeve, of whom the skylarks sing 

Each morning when they rise, 
Was as graceful as the wild gull's wing; 

And the color of her eyes 
Was between the blue of a robin's egg, 

And the deeper blue of the wave, 
That bears my dreams to Eribeg 

For the Slumber of her grave. 



THE EMPTY GRAVE 

I grieved above an empty grave, 

Where lay a fresh wild-flower wreath, 

To the memory of certain brave 

Young hearts, which should have lain beneath 

The turf of cold Glasnevin. 

The plot was like a little field, 

And the grass was guarded with a rail 

Of iron pikes, on which a shield 
Bore names immortal, and a tale 

Well known around Glasnevin. 

'Tray, how is this," a stranger cried ; 

"If I remember rightly, Sir, 
These men were hung and though they died 

For Ireland, they surely were 
Not buried in Glasnevin." 

"For they who die between the sod 
And sky of Saxon prison-tow'rs, 
[49] 



Are cast in lime without a clod 

To cover them, much less wild-flow'rs 
From fields about Glasnevin." 

And I beside the empty grave 
But read aloud the obvious line: 

"Here lie the patriotic brave 

Young Allen, Larkin and O'Brien" 

In National Glasnevin. 



THE GAP OF DUNLOE 2 

When fragrant Angels brought the Spring 

First to the Gap of wild Dunloe, 
They wondered much that anything 

From God in such a place should grow ; 
For the hollow hills were built on caves, 

Where hid the vixen with her fox, 
And the bitter bogland's stony waves, 

Arose to billows made of rocks. 

The fragrant Angels rested far 

Above the Gap of bleak Dunloe, 
Which on the Isle seemed like a scar 

Left by a Druid-devil's blow ; 
Between the hills a gash sunk deep, 

And weeds from many a brackish stream, 
Lay o'er the land which seemed asleep, 

Without a flower of which to dream. 

[50] 



So the fragrant Angels lit upon 

A barren moor of black Dunloe, 
To scatter forth the ceanaban 

In marshes like a shower of snow ; 
And ever since the place would seem 

Like the wreckage of a world, mayhap 
In fatal sleep but for the dream 

Of flowers that cheers the slumbering Gap. 

THE LILY 

The lily seems about to faint 
Away, just at the very hour 
That brings it to a finished flower. 

— And even so expires the saint. 



[5i] 



BEFORE I STUMBLED 

Before I stumbled o'er a song 

In Waterford or Kerry, 
The Winters were as long as long 

But all the Springs were merry ; 
For though I could not sing myself, 

The sally-thrush was near me, 
But now my rhymes might fill a shelf 

And not a bird to cheer me. 

Before I learned these music-words 

In Ballyshunock's meadow, 
The days were happy for the birds 



Oft sang within my shadow ; 
But now that I can sing a song, 

My shadow wants the thrushes, 
And the Winters are as long as long 

With neither birds nor bushes. 

How long ago since I was young 

In Munster of the Music, 
Is more than I could tell by tongue ; 

But charming Moira Cusack, 
Perchance recalls when first my words 

Made songs on her so sweetly, 
That all the jealous little birds 

Went off from me completely. 

THE IRISH MISSIONARIES 

When the dreams of God and His slumber-smiles 
Waxed to a world of stars and isles, 
He chose a Star to announce His birth, 
And an Isle to scatter the news on earth. 

WORDS AND MUSIC 

Tis I who dreamed of Beauty, while 

The place from which my dreamings came, 
Was sought by me throughout an Isle 

That bears an ancient Beauty's name. 
So I must sing of Beauty — I, 

Who seek from hill to hill, along 
Fair Banba's land for dreams that fly 

Like echoes of a cuckoo's song. 

[52] 



Tis I who dream of Beauty — She, 

Who surely lives within or on 
The Irish hill, that yet shall be 

The Tara of the coming Dawn. 
So I must sing of Beauty. Lord, 

That I may find the hillock soon 
To which my poems, word by word, 

Would march within a martial tune ! 

THE SWALLOW 

With the night on his back, 
And the day on his breast, 

The swallow flew off 

From his long summer's nest : 

And he carried my Day, 
And he carried my Night, 

On his feathery form 

With its black and its white, 

To a country unknown ; 

But I know it lies, where 
I have dreamed all my Time 

Since he flew Over There. 

IN CARRIGEEN 

For Her, and Her only, 
The leaves of October 
Laid gold on their green ; 
But for Her, and Her lonely, 
[53l 



They now fall to robe Her 
In cold Carrigeen. 

For Her, and Her only, 

The white-thorns bore flowers ; 
But now it would seem, 
That for me, and me lonely, 
They fall like snow-showers, 
To dapple my dream. 

For Her, and Her only, 
The wild pigeons whistle 
Their call and their cry ; 
But on Her and Her lonely, 
The down of the thistle 
Lies where it should lie. 

For Her, and Her only, 
I sang with the thrushes 
She heard in Tyrone ; 
But from me, and me lonely, 
The birds of the bushes 
Have silently flown. 

O Girl, lying lonely 

In your mantle of shoddy, 
You would be, I am sure, 
At my hob had you only 
The breath of your body, 
Now as mist on the moor ! 



[54l 



THE RED-HEARTED DAISY 

Perchance a weeping Fairy's wings 

Are freighted with this lyric, flying 
To the green ground 
Of Ireland; 

Since this poor little poem brings 

My sorrow for the robins, crying 
O'er the green ground 
Of Ireland : 

For the Gaelic-hearted robin sings 

O'er the Saxon-hearted daisy, dying 
On the green ground 
Of Ireland, 

As he shall sing when the Poet's strings 

Are laid away with an Alien, lying 
In the green ground 
Of Ireland. 

BOG-FLOWERS 2 

The whiteness of the ccanaban 

Lies in the marshy fog, 
Like a form of frozen wind upon 

The brown of a trembling bog. 

And I would my spirit seemed as white 

In the Mist of Memories, 
As the ceanaban that lies to-night 

Abroad like a frozen breeze. 
55] 



THE LEAVE-TAKING 

The swallows quickly chatter, 

On the eaves, 
Of a very weighty matter, 

Kathaleen ; 
For 'tis what I heard them say, 
"We must soon fly off away 
From the nests of yesterday — 

And Kathaleen." 

The robins in the bushes 

Sing their song, 
With more feeling than the thrushes, 

Kathaleen ; 
For their little rhymes relate, 
To the swallows on the slate, 
That have lingered rather late — 

With Kathaleen. 

Not only of the swallows 

Do they sing, 
For I leave your hills and hollows, 

Kathaleen ; 
With a music of my own 
That may ever be unknown 
To the robins of Tyrone — 

And Kathaleen. 

And though we now must sever, 
Little girl, 



[56] 



Perchance it is forever, 

Kathaleen ; 
I hope some day to learn, 
How the swallows all return 
To the valley of the Mourne — 

And Kathaleen. 

GLEANN MAGHAIR 

On the woody banks of your winding stream 

Glanmire, fair Glanmire ! 
The fairy dew from a poet's dream 

Of Morning quenched the fire 
Of my worldly heart that I might feel the Dawn. 

And as I walked your banks along 

Glanmire, fair Glanmire ! 
A fairy lark from a poet's song 

Of Morning flew up higher 
Than ever any Gaelic lark had gone. 

DAYS REMOTE 

Remote, they still are real, 

Tnose days of childish art, 
When the soul knew her ideal 

Much better than her heart. 

Afar, they still are present, 
Those days of dreamy hours, 

When the soul lived like a peasant 
With unknown royal powers. 
[57] 



Remote they are, but ready, 
Those days I seem to know, 

To lead where once they led me 
And I'm prepared to go. 



TEARS I HAVE SHED 

Tears I have shed o'er the dead and the dying, 
Grief I have known when alone with my Art ; 
But only the God o'er the sod that was lying 

Beneath us the day that we met for to part 
Could know the deep sorrow, the soul-crushing sor- 
row, 
That fell like a stone and made halves of my 
heart. 

Smiles I have cast in the past on the merry, 
Oft was I glad when a lad free from care ; 

But only the God o'er the sod where I bury 
The seeds of my Fancy that oft blossom fair 

Now knows the old feeling, the full happy feeling 
I have when I meet you in dreams over there. 



UNKNOWN 

Were I a beggar of tales and rhymes, 
Among the larks and talkative crows, 

I would ask as an alms the "Tale of the Times 
When the Wren was Wise" which nobody knows. 

[58] 



And were I a beggar of notes and tunes, 
Among the Fairies I would speak a word, 

To ask as alms the "Ancient Runes 

Of the Mountainy Folk" which nobody heard. 

But were I a beggar among a host 
Of bards, I might forgo these things, 

To ask for the song I liked the most 
In my lullaby days — which nobody sings. 



WATERFORD WISHES 

Rather near the graveyard of Killbarry, 
Would I be now a-listening to the thrushes, 

Than making up a music that shall carry, 
The echoes of my song to all the bushes 
Of County Waterford. 

Rather where the road of Newton crosses 
To Ballydurn would I be now, a ranger, 

Than dreaming here of all the many losses 

My heart sustained, since I became a stranger 
To County Waterford. 

Rather in the street of Kilmacthomas, 

Would I be now without a song or sonnet, 

Than singing of my home-returning promise. 
May the blessing of fulfilment fall upon it 
In County Waterford ! 
[59] 



MY NEIGHBOR 

My neighbor of the Feathered Breast 
Has built herself a grassy nest, 
Within a cow-track — she who flies 
O'er clouds into the cloudless skies. 

But in the field or up above, 
According to her laws of love, 
The cow-track and the clouds are one 
To the bird that praises Nature's sun. 

O would my house and chapel were 
As one to me, who neighbors her, 
The lark, whose nest lies safely now 
In the grassy field that I should plow. 



THE SCOTSTOWN VISITOR 8 

A withered old woman 

Came up from Carnmore, 
And the like of her never 

Was seen here before, 
For she wore a strange mantle 

As green as the sea, 
And we still do be thinking 

She was of the Sidhe. 

The withered old woman 
Sat down at a style, 



[60] 



And a poor little cripple 
Limped there with a smile ; 

"Good Morrow and Welcome 
Old dame of the Sidhe! 

I'm told the Good People 
Cure cripples like me." 

But the withered old woman 

Had nothing to say, 
To the poor little cripple 

Who limps to this day, 
And 'tis back to the mountain 

She went hurriedly, 
But we still do be thinking 

She was of the Sidhe. 

PERFECTION 

Who seeks perfection in the art 
Of driving well an ass and cart, 
Or painting mountains in a mist, 
Seeks God although an Atheist. 

WE BOTH SET OUT 

We both set out, my soul and I, 
To Erinn's island, one to fly 
Across the sea-birds' haunt, and one 
To sail against the travelling sun. 

But she who chose the nobler course, 
Mistook the yellow stars for gorse ; 
[61] 



And he who sailed the spheric stream, 
Is drifting in a murmurous dream. 

For we both set out, my soul and heart, 
To fly and sail with each one's part 
Of our great love, now argosies 
Of Song among the stars and seas. 

NEAR BALLYRENAN 

The Summer rain comes with a sob 
The while it falls on my father's hob, 
Near Ballyrenan, in that Tyrone 
Where many a hearth is a mossy stone. 

And the Winter snow like Slumber drifts 
Around a golden whin that lifts 
The buds that ope and fall apart, 
Like scattered dreams in Killydart. 

But the Spring has neither loss nor gain 
For the mountain side, where my father's grain 
Was a yearly gift from God, and O ! 
That a Landed Lord could will it so ! 

THE BROWN LITTLE BEE 

Brown little bee, 

I remember a girl, 
With a bowery dimple 

For each ferny curl ; 

[62] 



And her breath was as sweet 
As the breeze in the air, 

That blows down the street 
From a new honey fair. 

Brown little bee, 

Tis myself that grew weak, 
For the want of the pollen 

That bloomed on her cheek ; 
For the want of the wind 

In her hair, and the want 
Of the word she declined 

Long ago for to grant. 

O brown little bee, 

You have put me in mind, 
Of that flowery maiden 

For whom I have pined, 
In the dreams of hedged hours, 

Where the blue eyes I knew, 
Seem as empty as flowers 

Long courted by you. 



THE MASTER-SOUL 

A master-soul, with a music sweeter 
Than all the stars on Harmony's staff, 

Is he who sings in Sorrow's metre, 

Unknown to those who hear him laugh. 
[63 1 



KEIMANEIGH 

Through the lonely Pass of Keimaneigh 

The feet of me once trod, 
Where I feared the sound of lawless men 

And horses strangely shod — 
For the wraiths of robbers ride unseen 

Along its stony sod. 

But that was in my youthful time — 

And should I return again, 
I'd fear the Ghost of Nature more 

Than the noise of ghostly men — 
For as a wind She wanders through 

That flower-forsaken glen. 

Keimaneigh of the hilly Pass, 
As barren as a stone, 

Where the wraith of Nature is a wind 
Such as was never blown, 

1 would walk again your glen in dreams, 

But I dare not go alone. 



DUBLIN IN THE DARK 

In the strange night 

Of a city vast, 
Now sinks the light 

Of a glorious past, 
Reflected dimly, dimlv in the moon ; 

[6 4 ] 



But the heart of one 

Gone down in dreams, 
Would prefer the sun 

To these borrowed beams 
Reflected dimly, dimly in the moon. 

MAUREEN OGE 

O Maureen Oge across the foam, 
If you were at these hedges here, 

You would not know that you were home 
So quaint is everything and queer. 

Each primrose opens with the day 
To wonder why it has unfurled, 

And since you wandered far away 

The winds have searched the open world. 

The cucl^oo calls you home again; 

The daisies droop in pale distress ; 
And roses lean across the lane, 

Och ! roses wild with loneliness. 

O Maureen Oge beyond the sea, 

I wait not only with the rose; 
For in the house where you should be, 

The walls are lonesome for your clothes. 

IN EARTH OR SEA 

With the worms of the earth, 
Or the fish of the sea, 
[65] 



'Tis I shall hear the smallest note of mirth 
From a merry Laughter's broken melody. 

With the rocks in the ground, 

Or the reefs in the deep, 
'Tis I shall hear the smallest happy sound 

As an echo in the dreams of one asleep. 



THE WINDS 

The Wind of the South 
With mouth wet and mild 

Is good in Her deeds 

To the seeds growing wild. 

The Wind of the North 
Goes forth for to sweep 

O'er birds newly born 
And shorn huddled sheep. 

The Wind of the West 

At rest on the lea 
Fills fisher-men's nets 

With the pets of the sea. 

But the Eastern Wind 
Made blind by the rains 

Comes tapping his stick 
On the thick window-panes. 



[66] 



THESE WHIMS 

These whims are dreary 
Afar from the golden oats, 

And these rhymes are weary 
Afar from the linnet's notes. 

These songs are lonely 

Afar from the thrushes lane, 

And these words are only 
A wish to be back again. 

STAR-SHADOWS 

Star-shadows broken into shards 
Fall on the little children's Bards, 
Who sing Simplicity's refrain 
To the patter of the playful rain. 

But the Poet of the Elder Folk- 
Is shadowed by the dewy oak ; 
Nor can he sing until he hears 
The drip of breeze-begotten tears. 

Yet I am neither bard unto 
The Young or Old ; for winds ne'er blew, 
Nor rain has fallen for the scribe, 
Who sings among the Shadow Tribe. 

BEFORE THE SUMMER 

The bashful primrose hides away 
Among the hours of fading May, 



[67 



And the restless cuckoo drops his tune 
Among the seven last days of June. 

For the roaming cuckoo fondly strays 
Among the hours of thirty days, 
To call the primrose back from sleep 
With dreamy echoes of music deep. 

And like an echo is the voice 
That calls the maiden of my heart's choice, 
From the faded flowers of a distant May 
For the cuckoo calls in my dreams to-day. 



THE WANDERER 

I know the continuity of change 
Shall win me that fair Ireland I range 
But as a Wraith — a onetime traveller's 
Sun-weary shadow, lost while seeking hers. 

O Breath of Life you blow from out my heart 
The song that plays a wandering Spirit's part; 
But the Breeze of Death shall waft that Dream 

among 
The hills of Ireland lost when I was young. 

For the rolling years again shall come around 
With rest for me whose Shadow, having found 
The Spirit of my Ireland, shall range 
Beyond the continuity of change. 

[68] 



THE NUN 
Knowing well the blossomed power 

Of Nature in this artful world, 
She folded up her soul, a flower, 

Which Angels long to see unfurled 
Among the lilies now in Heaven ; 

The lilies nourished in a sod, 
That needs nor sun nor dewy leaven 

In the weeded garden of their God. 

O may we all who shared her labors 

Of daily work and dreary tasks, 
Be all together, all as neighbors 

In that other world! And the poet asks, 
That the little Nun may grant him pardon 

For singing such a weedy song, 
About that fair and future Garden 

Where flowers such as she belong. 

THE CROW'S NEST 9 

Do I mind the soft welcome of those 
Whom I left in Raphoe with regret? 

Och ! the twigs in the nest of the crows 
Shall blossom before I forget. 

The old woman down in her shop, 
Who was old when I first toddled in 

To buy me a two-penny top, 

And a scurge for to help it to spin. 
[69] 



The dusty wee man breaking stones 

On the side of the road where he wrought, 

When I still had the youth in my bones, 
And a bagful of dreams for each thought. 

The tinker, as old as the old, 
The beggar, the siubhloir and all 

Who must travel for want of the gold 
That keeps me from kind Donegal. 

Do I mind the soft welcome of those 
Whom I left in Raphoe with regret? 

Och ! the twigs in the nest of the crows 
Shall blossom before I forget. 



THE TWILIGHT 

To the Arab the Mother of Time is the Moon, 
And Time to the Persian begins at high noon ; 
But the Twilight to me is the Mother of Time, 
With her lullabies set to the Gael's robin-rhyme. 



CONNAMARA 

What are the monthly moons to one 
Who scarcely sees the city's sun, 
That comes from out the distant dark 
Where sings a late sky-sheltered lark 
O'er a girl in Connamara ? 

[70] 



What are the useless stars to me 
Who never heard their melody, 
Nor saw them here, unless it were 
As reflected light from the eyes of her 
Who sings in Connamara? 



l S' 



O what is this new world, without 
The privilege sweet of being in doubt 
As to whether I am in her thought, 
Or in the dreams that came to naught 
Away in Connamara ! 



SWAN-SONGS 

The Oriental cuckoo cries 

His dirges of the double note, 
From out a bloody throat 

And dies. 

The Celtic swan begins a lay, 
A slumber-lyric, which eftsoons 
Grows sadly silent and she swoons 

Away. 

And I about to part with breath, 
Would so allay the agony, 
By singing in an ecstasy 

Of Death. 
[71] 



THE THREE SONGS 

I smit my bitter foe with verses 

Of satire sharp, 
But the echoes carried back their curses 

And struck my harp. 

I sang to skies in the master-metres 

Of noble Rome, 
Yet the echoes only gained St. Peter's 

Acoustic dome. 

But the song I lent a sky-lark yearning 

To sing for me, 
Now comes to Memory and returning 

Brings Poetry. 

THE DEAD NUN 
Sister Lucy all in white, 
Silent as a snowy night, 
Lies upon her bier as though 
She were a form of drifted snow. 

Sister Lucy for a while 

Lived among us, with the smile 

That glistens yet like ice, upon 

The face from which its warmth has gone. 

Sister Lucy lying here, 
White as Winter on your bier ; 
Had you gone my way with me, 
No colder could my heart now be ! 

[72] 



WHEN YOUTH WAS 

To you my heart I gave, Boy, 

When curls were on the leaf, 
But my breast is now a grave, Boy, 

Of wonderment and grief. 
For you promised me the ring, Boy, 

While leaves were all in curls, 
But you quickly felt the Spring, Boy, 

Neath the beams of other girls. 

I gave my lasting love, Boy, 

With truth upon my tongue, 
When the lark was late above, Boy, 

And forget-me-nots were young. 
And 'twas to me you told, Boy, 

What leaves me now bereft, 
For the harvest moon is old, Boy, 

And the birds have loved and left. 

ITA 

Death came 

As snowy flakes, 
To the Flame 

Of one 

Pure little soul 
Who has won 

The Breath, 

That fed the Flame 
To baffle Death : 



[73] 



The God, 

Whose tears are snow 
On her sod. 

FAIRY PARK 

O'er Fairy Park 

On an Ulster hill, 
A native lark 

Is singing still ; 
And he can see, 

From where he flies, 
A ship at sea 

'Neath twilight skies. 

In Fairy Park 

On an Ulster height, 
My love, the lark, 

Shall dream to-night 
Of a ship at sea, 

By the sun-set crowned ; 
And perchance of me 

Now outward bound. 

O'er Fairy Park 

Where sky-larks sail, 
The lonely lark 

Some day shall hail 
The soul of me, 

Returning by 
Her shipless sea, 

The Irish sky. 



[74] 



TRUTH AND LOVE 

While Ghostly God's persistent Grace 
Scorns the vicissitudes of place, 
Truth and Love shall remain sublime 
Among the lowly things of Time. 

THE SILENT CLOCK 

Three women came over from Monasterboice 
To kneel with the Soggarth and answer his voice, 
For pale on the poster their grandfather lay 
And two candles were burning though bright was 
the day. 

A shutterless window framed acres of land, 
But a six-penny cross was the wealth in his hand ; 
And he held it as though 'twere the shaft of a plow 
That stiffens the muscles and softens the brow. 

With the weight of its wood slipping out of his 

grasp, 
The breath of the dying soon grew to a gasp ; 
And the six-penny cross, which an angel might 

wear, 
Decked his breast — and thus ended a common 

affair. 

As I passed through the chamber an old-fashioned 

clock 
Stood weary and worn, for its tick and its tock 
Had measured his labor and tallied his breath, 
From the hour of birth to the hour of death. 
[75] 



But an old Gaelic woman went up to its side 
And set the black hands to the minute he died : 
And I, but a youth from a gay foreign clime, 
First knew what it meant for to pass beyond 
Time. 



SLEEP 

Sleep falls like snow-flakes, and it seems 
'Tis always drifting into dreams ; 
But Death falls like the snow at sea, 
And drifts into Eternity. 



THE HOLY THREE 

O saintly Patrick of the Irish People, 
From out the shadow of a chapel steeple 
May I come forth at the Resurrection, 
To gain the power of your protection! 

Mystic Mary of the Gaelic Nation, 
My soul shall trust in that appellation ; 
For surely, Brigid, the day of trial 
Shall hear no Foster-Mother's denial ! 

Columkille of the many churches, 

When your Derry's angels have left their perches. 

May you help me in my soul's endeavor 

To be exiled from this world forever ! 

[76] 



O Holy Saints, your symbol surely 
Is the leafy shamrock, set securely 
On Irish graves for their protection, 
When God comes forth at the Resurrection. 

ALCHEMY 

Because of the light of the moon, 

Silver is found on the moor ; 
And because of the light of the sun, 

There is gold on the walls of the poor. 

Because of the light of the stars, 
Planets are found in the stream ; 

And because of the light of your eyes, 
There is love in the depths of my dream. 

BALLAD OF THE MOTHER'S 
REVENGE 10 

Rich were the lands of Inch Castle, 
Where Ulick Mac Kelly was Lord, 

O'er the bog and the lawn, 

Of Ballykilbawn, 

Which he held by the strength of his sword. 

And Oony O'Moore had a cabin, 
In the shadow of dark Castle Inch, 

Where cages were hung, 

From which gold-finches sung, 
To the free little robin and finch. 

[77] 



But Oony O'Moore had a daughter, 

In the shade of Mac Kelly's black soul, 

Where Hell's scarlet light, 

Gave the power of sight, 

To a demon that naught could control. 

Now the Plague struck the flesh of Mac Kelly, 
So they left him alive and alone, 

In the heart of the bogs, 

Where not even the dogs, 

Would have gone for a man's rotten bone. 

They carried him out to the marshes, 

And left him alone and alive, 
In a shed on the moor, 
With a death to endure, 

For they knew that he could not survive. 

Next morning the shadow of Oony, 
Went out with herself on the bog, 

To a man whom she cursed, 

Till he tried in his thirst, 

For to drink the damp mist of the fog. 

And the people in fear of the Fever 
Stood dumb with a terror untold ; 

For the curses they heard, 

Called each carrion bird, 

To the flesh of a man growing cold. 



[78] 



Sitting in front of the sheiling 

It was Oony O'Moore whom they saw, 
And her blasphemous voice 
Bid the mag-pie rejoice, 

And the raven to sharpen his claw. 

By the sheiling of Ulick Mac Kelly, 
Three paces away from his breath, 

She sat at the door, 

Shouting curses galore, 

While he waited the blessing of Death. 

And the rooks of the parish next morning, 
Went out with the ravens and crows, 

And they flew to the side, 

Of the man who had died, 

Near a woman who never arose. 

For Oony O'Moore's only daughter, 
Was slain in the house of the chief, 

Who died by the side, 

Of the mother who died, 

To revenge the great cause of her grief. 

Now even the name of the valley, 

Has been changed in the County Kildare ; 

But the old castle stands, 

On Mac Kelly's rich lands, 
And the rooks of the parish are there. 

[791 



And Oony O'Moore of the Curses, 
Walks still in her shadowy shawl, 

Near Ballycolane, 

Where she cries not in vain, 

For the ravens still come at her call. 



PASSING THE CHAPEL 

O Chief of Adam's Clan 

Upon the earth and over, 

My head I now uncover, 
O Chief of Adam's Clan. 

O Chieftain crowned by me, 
A deed of shameful credit, 
I pass you now bareheaded, 

O Chieftain crowned by me. 

O Chief upon Your Throne 
Beneath this chapel's steeple, 
May you crown all Patrick's People, 

O Chief upon Your Throne. 



THE TWO FIRES 

A song once fell from Heaven above, 
"Forever burns my soul with Love" ; 
And up from Hell there came a shout, 
"Neither shall this my soul burn out." 

[80] 



BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE 

On Douglas Bridge I met a man 
Who lived adjacent to Strabane, 
Before the English hung him high 



For riding with O'Hanlon. 



The eyes of him were just as fresh 
As when they burned within the flesh ; 

And his boot-legs widely walked apart 
From riding with O'Hanlon. 

"God save you, Sir !" I said with fear, 
"You seem to be a stranger here." 
"Not I," said he, "nor any man 
Who rides with Count O'Hanlon." 

"I know each glen from North Tyrone 
To Monaghan, and I've been known 

By every clan and parish, since 
I rode with Count O'Hanlon." 

"Before that time," said he to me, 
"My fathers owned the land you see ; 
But they are now among the moors 
Ariding with O'Hanlon." 

"Before that time," said he with pride, 
"My fathers rode where now they ride 

As Rapperees, before the time 
Of Trouble and O'Hanlon." 



[81] 



"Good night to you, and God be with 
The Tellers of the tale and myth, 
For they are of the spirit-stuff 
That rides with Count O'Hanlon." 

"Good night to you," said I, "and God 
Be with the chargers, fairy-shod, 

That bear the Ulster heroes forth 
To ride with Count O'Hanlon." 

On Douglas Bridge we parted, but 
The Gap o' Dreams is never shut, 

To one whose saddled soul to-night 
Rides out with Count O'Hanlon. 

THAT STARRY THING 

That starry thing a-singing now 
Above the mountain-ash's bough, 
Is but a bird, yet he who hears 
Her song, has Heaven at his ears. 

O ! that my future Paradise 
May be as near the Irish skies 
As the bird is to the clouds — as near 
As her winged song is to mine ear ! 

THE HUSBANDMAN 

With a scythe and ; a song I reaped the field, 
Where lies the stuble that yet shall yield 
To the scythe and song of Winter's blast : 
And thus may Death reap me at last. 

[82 



MAC SWEENEY THE RHYMER 

Hughie Mac Sweeney, a thatcher by trade, 
Now slumbers unknown in his clay cabin made 
By a song-singing gravedigger, deep in the shade, 
Of the Phoenix near Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney, by Nature and Art, 

Was cursed with the gift that has withered the 

heart 
Of song-stricken Gaels, whom the Saxon would 

part 
From the Phoenix of Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney, a writer of songs, 
Was filled with the knowledge of Ireland's wrongs, 
And his ballads were brave, yet the credit belongs 
To the Phoenix of Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney one night long ago, 
Went up to the waters that sing as they flow 
From Tubberneiirs fountain, when suddenly, lo ! 
The Phoenix on Bessy Bell Mountain ! 

Hughie Mac Sweeney that night near the well, 
Saw bright Orange flags on the ramparts of Hell, 
By the light of the fiery feathers that fell, 
From the Phoenix on Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney saw Baronscourt's parks, 

In a vision lit up by those feathery sparks, 

And that Hope he beheld is now sung by the larks, 

O'er the Phoenix of Bessy Bell Mountain. 
[83] 



Hughie Mac Sweeney heard tales of the years, 
When the Gael would come back from his troubles 

and tears, 
To the meadows he left with a patriot's fears, 
For the Phoenix of Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney that night with a moan, 
Heard the sorrowful tale of his shadowed Tyrone, 
And 'tis he had a grievous tale of his own, 
For the Phoenix on Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney came down at the dawn, 
And 'tis strange that his bones were not quartered 

and drawn, 
For the story he told, and the song he made on 
The bold Phoenix of Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney lived long in Ardstraw, 
And long did he sing of the vision he saw — 
The sun-beams of Liberty, now in the claw 
Of the Phoenix on Bessy Bell Mountain. 

Hughie Mac Sweeney, a thatcher and bard, 
Now slumbers unknown in Ardstraw's chapel-yard, 
But his soul was brought up to its shining reward, 
By the Phoenix from Bessy Bell Mountain. 

THE BUILDERS 

Behold ! He has, made thee small and poor of 
feather ; 
Yet thou wouldst build thy nest among the stars, 

[84] 



Ambitious Lark, that flieth from the heather 
To Heaven's bars. 

Behold ! He has made thee as His Likeness, 
Brother ; 

Yet thou wouldst build thy heaven even here, 
Ambitious Man, who hast a will to smother 

Thy sense of fear. 

THE PUBBLE GHOST 

The ghost of a troubled woman 

Arose from her body's tomb, 
And she came one morn 
With her babe unborn 

To the door of our cabin room. 

And the hand of the ghostly woman 
Knocked loud with its knuckled bone, 

Until she was told 

To come in — for we hold 

That no beggar should want in Tyrone. 

"God prosper the work" ! said the woman, 
"The workers, the churn and the staff, 

For it is what I think 

I had little to drink 

Since your wee moiley cow was a calf." 

"The blessing of God on you, woman ! 
There is plenty of drink in the churn, 
[85] 



And since you are a guest 
We shall give you the best 

Ever milked on the banks of the Mourne." 

But the noggin of milk that was offered 
To the woman remained on the shelf, 

For she seemed in a trance 

When I by a chance 

Began to sing low to myself. 

For I was a music-maker, 

A singer of song and rhyme, 
And I tried them in turn 
Each week at the churn 

While the plunge of the dasher kept time. 

Now the woman who came as a beggar 

Repeated the song, and soon 
She went with her care 
Back to Pubble Yard where 

The Dead have heard her croon. 

For the ghost of a troubled woman 
Once walked through Dernalabe, . 

With my lullaby song 

In her mouth which long 

She has sung to an unborn babe. 

THE CELT 

He enters Europe from the East, 
Where yet the monstrous bones of beast 

[86] 



And reptile lie, as when they lay 
Upon the fortieth deluged day. 

His rounded head wears plaited locks, 
All dyed the color of the fox; 
And his eyes are blue, as blue and fierce 
As the scorching skies they long to pierce. 

Strong of form, his arms are large 

Enough to bear a heavy targe ; 

A stony weapon, and a long 

Straight brazen spear once blest with song, 

That it might only sing of Death, 
On its way to anything with breath. 
He enters Europe huge of limb, 
And each young muscle moves on him, 

As though 'twere dancing to the beat 
Of his musical heart; and at his feet 
Goes watchfully a wolfish dog. 
He enters Europe in a fog. 



BALLAD OF MARGET 

'Tween Collen Town and Oriel 
On a road in County Louth, 

There lives a girl as sweet as though 
The bees had made her mouth. 

[87] 



And many a man still has the heart 

He hopes that she may choose, 
Since Francey from Rathdonnell's fields 

Lost all he had to lose. 

One night while the bitter winds blew up 
And the snows were blowing down, 

Young Francey took the top of the road 
To the edge of Collen Town. 

"God bless all here" ! said the shivering lad 

As he entered Marget's door, 
" 'Tis a terrible night, and ye might say that 

And still say something more." 

"God bless ye kindly," she replied, 

"Faith, cold it is but why, 
Should the heart of a youth be cold at all 

Though the snows are drifting high?" 

Young Francey sat before the grate, 

And he then began to blow, 
The purple palms of his freezing hands 

And his fingers stiff with snow. 

"Now why do you blow your hands so red, 

Your fingers and each thumb?" 
"That my breath may warm them well," said he, 

"For cold they are and numb." 

[88] 



"If that be so," then Marget cried, 
"Let ye take this bowl of broth ;" 

And she placed it on the roses red 
That bloomed in the table-cloth. 

Young Francey at the table sat, 
And he blew his breath with vim, 

On the bowl of broth 'till waves arose 
And dashed against the brim. 

"Now why do you blow the steaming bowl, 
And you just in from the storm?" 

"That my breath may cool it well," said he, 
"For it is as warm as warm." 

"Since you have blown to make things hot 

And then to make things cool, 
'Tis plain ye are but a fickle lad 

If not an inconstant fool !" 

And saying so, young Marget soon 
Was the loneliest girl in Louth, 

Where long indeed she looked as though 
A bee had stung her mouth. 

And now she sits by a lonely grate 

To sup her lonely broth, 
But the roses red, Och ! the roses red 

Still bloom in the table-cloth. 

[89] 



BEAUTY 

Ere Light and Shade, or Land and Sea, 
Were cast in the Now of Eternity ; 
Or the hosts of Angels through Heaven trod, 
Beauty was made from a Rib of God. 



THE GREEN ROAD 11 

I roamed the mountain when a child, 

And knew each place and every part, 
From Legacurry's pigeons wild 

To the linnets green of Killydart; 

But now it is a faded chart 
Upon a page of Memory, 

Without a thrush to cheer my heart, 
Or dove to coo its love to me. 

But on the Mount of Bessy Bell, 

I know the burns are running still 
In Legacurry's hilly dell. 

And Killydart behind the hill ; 

For through a broken window-sill 
Among the walls of ruined homes, 

'Tis I can see a mountain rill 
That rambles where my spirit roams. 

And through Rathkelly's broken Arch, 

I still can see swift ripples turn, 
And through the limbs of mountain larch 



[90] 



Mine eyes behold Pulrory Burn ; 

Whose roaring waters wildly churn 
The foam into a floating mist, 

That rises to the mountain's cairn 
Where Donnell Gorm sleeps in the cist. 

Sweet are the fields where flowers grow, 

As once they grew upon the flax 
In Legacurry, where I go 

Through dreams to build the turf in stacks 

But Killydart all pleasure lacks 
To one who in those dreams can hear, 

The music of proud royal packs 
Of hounds that chase the foreign deer. 

In Legacurry I can trace 

The causes of my early cares, 
But Killydart is now a place 

Of tangled haunts for timid hares ; 

And all along the stream that shares 
Its broken music with my lay, 

Still grow the trees that were the tares 
Which choked the grain of Yesterday. 

In Baronscourt the fields are green ; 

But greener far than meadows fair, 
Is the little road that lies between 

The woods and wreckage over there ; 

For over there, Och ! over there, 
A little road in grass is clad, 
[91] 



Which only Baronscourt should wear 
Or Lurgybeg or Aghafad. 

So I've roamed the mountain since a child, 

From Legacurry of the sloes 
Across the summit worn and wild, 

To the ruins shadowed by the crows ; 

Along the glen my spirit goes, 
And though her home should be my heart, 

This soul of mine no comfort knows 
Outside the walls of Killydart. 

BALLAD OF TWO COUNTIES 

O reader of this Irish rhyme 

Let you give thanks to God, 
That the tzvo and thirty counties now 

Are as a single sod. 

Along a road in Antrim's Glenns, 

A Monk and a Friar came ; 
And one had eyes filled up with sparks 

And one had eyes of flame. 

The Monk he was a man of peace 
But his hand once knew the hilt ; 

And the Friar had a peaceful soul 
But his heart of bone was built. 

Along the road in Antrim's Glenns, 
They met upon a day ; 



[92] 



While the sky-larks tuned their merry, merry notes 
To the loud burns on the brae. 

"Now God be with you," said the Monk, 

"I come from brothers leal ; 
'Tis what I say I come to beg 

For the body of Shane O'Neill." 

"Strange is the soil in which he lies, 

And with us it is a law, 
That the chief who dies, with his ancestors, 

Should lie down in Armagh." 

Then full of voice the Friar spoke; 

"Have you brought from your fens, 
The dust of James Mac Donnell, Lord 

Of Cantire and the Glenns?" 

"Strange is the soil in which he lies, 

And with us it is a law, 
That the chieftain gone to his ancestors 

Should lie not in Armagh." 



L .V 



"Now," quoth the Monk, "it is a truth, 

I did not what you say ;" 
While the black-birds tuned their sorry, sorry notes 

With the loud burns on the brae. 

"Then," said the Friar, "know ye that 

Whilst surly foemen tread 
[93] 



On James, the Lord of Antrim's Glenns, 
And Chief of Cantire's dead; 

Know ye, I say, that in Glenarm 

Where hard is every heel ; 
Our brothers bare of foot shall tread 

On the dust of your great O'Neill." 

O reader of this Irish rhyme, 

Let you give thanks to God, 
That the two and thirty counties now 

Are as a single sod. 

THE DRUMS 

While the restless heart of a shackled man 

Beats on his hollow soul, 
Discordant drums shall be sweeter than 

The royal organ's roll. 

FATHER HEARN 

Father Hearn of Kilmigemogue 

Lies now beneath the threshold stones 
Of his chapel porch, where boot and brogue 

Must walk across his humble bones 
While going through the church's door, 

To Christ whose Body humbly lies 
Neath the Tabernacle's tomb-stone, o'er 

Which Angels walk in meek surprise. 

[941 



But Father Hearn, by Heaven's Grace, 

Shall the higher sit at Heaven's Board, 
Because he chose the lowliest place 

In which to wait for Heaven's Lord. 
For such is sweet Humility, 

That sacred Virtue still so dear 
To the ever-present Christ, that He 

Waits for the lowly with them here. 

NOT ALWAYS 

Not always would I go along 

With constant features looking up ; 
For some discovered butter-cup 

Might prove the subject for a song: 

A song of Life and Grief and Love, 
Set to the sorrow of the grass 
For those in towering towns, who pass 

With constant features turned above. 

NEWTOWN'S GRAVES 

Stars like sparks 

From the smouldering day, 
Ghosts of larks 

In a glimmering sky, 
And nearer still, 

The gold and grey 
Of a lunar hill, 

That echoes the cry 



[95] 



Of corn-crakes, deep 

In the fields away 
From Those who Sleep 

And Dream of Day. 

THE RINGASKIDDY CHILD 

When I have set 

My thoughts to sing 
Of a child I met 

On the road to Ring, 
My heart and rhyme 

Would slowly beat 
To keep in time 

With her tiny feet. 

But the child has long 

Been low in Cork; 
And my heart and song 

Here in New York, 
Can only beat 

In harmony 
With the pattering feet 

Of a Memory. 

NEST AND HIVE 

The Hive Bee lives in his cabin round, 
For less than a year ; but in the ground 
Of a flowery ditch, the Humble Bee 
Lives like a lord, for he is free. 

[96] 



The Hive Bee gathers his goods for Man ; 
But the Humble Bee since Trade began 
Has hoarded honey, and still shall hoard 
His liquid treasures for Nature's Lord. 

Had I the wealth of a wood or farm, 
I'd keep the Hive Bees all from harm ; 
But as it is with their apiary, 
So is it with my house and me. 

A FAIRY SINGS 

The crooning wind has a troubled song 
For the little breeze that creeps along 
This rippled lake, wherein tonight 
The stars as dreams shall give their light. 

But I shall come this evening with 
My story, legend, song and myth, 
To the motherly wind whose little breeze 
Shall slumber to the harmonies, 

That sang the Bards of old asleep 
Beside this purple lake, as deep 
As the purple depths from which the bright 
Fair stars shall come as dreams tonight. 

THE TOTAL DAY 

A sky-lark sings a lyric loud 

Upon a cloud in skies remote, 
And from the ringers of the breezes, 

My spirit seizes every note. 
[971 



A black-bird sings upon a perch 

Of silvery birch, with beak of gold, 

And through the briers of a thistle, 
The breezes whistle echoes bold. 

A robin sings a doubtful song, 

While clouds prolong uncertain light, 

And winds that bear the robin's sorrow, 
Seek for Tomorrow through the night. 

THE MASTERS 

My eyes have pierced the mystic blue 

Of distances, within the eyes 
Of dream-victorious Dante, who 

Saw earthly things in Paradise ; 

And I have heard the harmony 

Of words that rhymed themselves along 

The course of Shakespeare's life, while he 
Sang of the sky-lark with her song. 

But O that I were deaf and dark 

To the world, as are those other two, 

Beethoven, awed by Heaven's lark, 

And Milton, mazed by Heaven's view ! 

THE DOMES 

To illuminate a hymn I wrought, 
On an orderly Thomistic thought 
In holy volumes, but 'twould seem 
I labored on a useless dream. 

[98] 



For in those vast cathedral-tomes, 

The thoughts to me were massive domes, 

On which Aquinas, as a saint 

Sketched what my dreams have failed to paint. 

UNHINDERED 

Intended for that Brilliant Place 

From which the Light 
Comes darkling as a lance of Grace 

To pierce the Night, 

The soul awaits the coming shaft 

Of Death, delayed 
Not by the jealous Power Who laughed 

When Man was made. 

WITHERING 

Flower, without 

A voice to sing, 
We are about 

— My soul and I — 

To make a song 

For robins to sing, 
When the bee ere long 

Shall pass you by. 

THE GREY GHOST 

From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey, 
Through misty Connamara in the West; 
[99] 



And those who seek the cause of His unrest, 
Need go not to the Death-Dumb in the clay, 
To those who fell defiant in the fray, 
Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest 
By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest 
Left Hell and Connaught open on their way. 

As I have heard, so may the stranger hear ! 

That he who drove the natives from the lawn, 

Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen, 
Until the Irish gather with a cheer 

In Dublin of the Parliaments at Dawn. 

God rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen ! 

IN CAPPAGH PARISH 

The sheen of salmon in the Strule ; 

A living lyre overhead ; 
A rhymer of Tradition's school, 

And silence down among the Dead. 

'Tis but a study of the spot 

Through which I often roam in sleep ; 

A stilly place where Gael and Scot 
Bewail the silence they must keep, 

When the river runs with salmon trout, 
And larks go forth to sing of life, 

And I go down in dreams to shout 
The manly songs of ancient strife. 

[ ioo ] 



THE POETICAL SAINTS 

The Gaelic Bards to Nature seem 

As goodly saints, who sing to God, 
That all the prayers which they may dream 
Her favorite sod. 



Mjy bless 



Yet the Irish Saints to Her appeared 
As pious bards, who gave renown 

To Heaven's Son, whom Nature reared, 
To wear Her leafless crown. 

O PART OF ME 

O Part of me imparadised, 

O Heart of me 

In yonder singing lark disguised ! 

You have left a part of me alone — 

That part of me 

Which shall flutter higher than you have flown. 

STAR-SHEEN 

Were you the Brook, 

And I the Beam, 
The stars above 

Might well disperse ; 
But were you the Book 

And I the Dream, 
The stars, my Love, 

Would stud the Verse. 



[ioi] 



BALLAD OF FRIENDSHIP 

Among the men of the Gaelic tongue 

A proverb can be found ; 
''The mercy of God oft lies between 

The saddle and the eround." 



s j 



And among the tales as yet unsung 

By Sassanach or Gael, 
Is one that proves the proverb is 

As truthful as the tale. 

Near Ballyboe in Ireland 

Two men together met, 
And for many a day and many a day 

Each was the other's pet. 

At every fair they both were seen 

And together they would be, 
And in each man's house they both enjoyed 

True hospitality. 

And at every market they were seen 

And they met at every Mass, 
'Till the older man of the friendly pair 

Lay under lonely grass. 

A stilly night it surely was 

And a night as clear as noon, 
When Cormac rode on his wan-white mare 

'Neath the beams of a wan- white moon. 

[102] 



Along the road from Ballyboe 

Old Cormac rode his mare, 
Until he felt the mane at his hand 

Grow stiff as a dead man's hair. 

"Now Kate, my girl, be at your ease ; 

Now Kate, my girl, be still ;" 
But the young mare strove at the level road 

As though 'twere a rocky hill. 

And as she trembled timidly 

The filly struggled hard, 
'Till flecked with foam she leaped away 

O'er the road to the chapel yard. 

Nine ticks o' his watch from the chapel gate, 

With the rider all was well ; 
Eight ticks o' the watch from the chapel gate, 

The man from his wild mare fell. 

"Och ! Kate, my girl, be at your ease, 

Och ! Kate, my girl, be calm, 
For my foot is caught in the stirrup-strap 

And no reins are in my palm." 

Now as the filly reached the gate 

That leads to Death's abode, 
She stopped as suddenly as though 

Death in the saddle rode. 
[ 103 ] 



And as Cormac lay at the chapel wall, 

'Twas but a matter of course, 
That he should see his Faithful Friend 

At the bridle of the horse. 

So pulling out his clasping knife 

The strap was severed soon, 
And off he rode on his wan- white mare 

'Neath the beams of a wan-white moon. 

"Now Kate, my girl, be at your ease, 

Sure Kate, 'twas only Jim, 
And ye might have known my old comrade 

For I often rode with him." 

" 'Twas he who had the flowing heart, 

For Love was at its source, 
And the friend in Life was still the friend 

In Death as a matter of course." 

"And though he rides the winds to-night, 

God's mercy surely lies, 
Between the grass of Ballyboe 

And the gates of Paradise, 

As it lay between the stony ground, 

That holds the dust of Jim, 
And the saddle-seat in which I ride 

Away from the soul of him." 

[104] 



And saying so he prayed a prayer, 

That was granted as a boon, 
For he sleeps tonight beside his friend 

'Neath the beams of a wan- white moon. 

THE SOLAR ROAD 

From the start of Life 
To the end of Its strife 

There is many a weary league, 
But the Road that runs 
Among the Suns 

Shall cause us no fatigue. 

IN DREAMY VALLEYS 

In dreamy valleys odorous and vast 

Surrounded by the mountain's sunny sides ; 

In fields where tossing grasses have their tides, 

Ere the ebbing and the flowing winds have passed 

To a Winter, bitter only 'tween the blast 

Of Stephen's Day and that of good St. Bride's, 
The soul of me contented now abides, 

Whereto her alien heart shall roam at last. 

Nor all the seas between me and my soul, 
Nor all the clouds now flying where they flew 
When first my broken being knew divorce, 

Shall keep me from the star-surrounded goal 
Of Ireland, when dreams have led me through 
The life that I am living here by force. 

[105] 



THE YEW TREE 

From out the yew-tree's aged green, 
A bluish vapor may be seen 
Arising as the misty breath 
Of Nature's ever-living Death. 

And yet the yew lives longer than 
The grey historic mind of Man 
In Erinn of the Grave-yards where 
These ghostly cloudlets haunt the air. 

'Tis thus my heart would share its breath 

Of Life with ever-present Death, 

The while its spirit longs to live 

For what but Timeless God can give. 

THE FRAGRANT NAME 

Fermanagh is a fragrant name 

To one who as a child, 
Saw garden roses growing tame 

And violets growing wild ; 
But in these long and later years 

Fermanagh is a scene, 
Which dreamy eyes with distant tears 

Keep ever fresh and green. 

The light of many a lovely eye 

Now closed forevermore, 
Still shines from out the flowers that lie 

[106] 



Upon Lough Erne's shore ; 
And the modest little daisies meek 

That grow where daisies grew, 
Retain the blush of many a cheek 

Now dust beneath the dew. 



Fermanagh is a fragrant name 

To one who as a child, 
Saw garden flowers growing tame 

And wood-vines running wild ; 
But O ! that I were where I was, 

Near Devinish Island's waves, 
Where the holy incense of the haws 

Still sanctifies the graves. 



THE HOLY HANDS 

The holy hands that Durer painted, 
The crowned madonna of Raphael, 

Models only by Genius sainted, 

And damned, perchance, in the depths of Hell. 



THE GRAVE OF GERALD GRIFFIN 12 

Here must my heart beat the faster, O Bard ! 
Here at your grave in this old grassy yard, 
Where my spirit is struck by the delicate beams 
From butter-cups scattered like dream-shattered 

dreams. 
[ 107 ] 



Thirty and two of your brothers lie here 
Awaiting the end of no wind-withered year, 
For dreaming they are of those sun-setting hours, 
When Heaven shall rise like a full moon of flowers. 

Brothers they were and as Brothers they now 
Lie humbly together still bound by their vow, 
But, alas ! that a Bard and a Dramatist pure 
Should rest on this hillside unknown and obscure. 

O Maker of dreams from the haze of the dawn 

Maker of dreams from the mist further on, 

1 stand by your grave as a pilgrim who trod 
To the dust of a saint still ungathered by God. 

I stand by your grave, but the Poet in me 

Displaces the Pilgrim in one who would be 

As a poet indeed, with a lyric of praise 

For your soul in the mist and your heart in the haze. 

With a song like the Shannon's sweet musical joy, 
That flooded the hours when you were a boy, 
Or a song like the Lee's with its mystical mirth 
Flowing on through your hours now Timeless on 
earth. 

But 'tis only a fancy, the wish of a fool, 

That the pupil should sing like the master, whose 

school 
Held Simplicity high 'mong its lyrical laws, 
So the poor little effort I offer must pause. 

[108] 



For the Poet in me at your grave must give way 
To the Pilgrim distracted who came for to pray, 
That his resurrection, like your's, happy Bard, 
May in Ireland be from a green chapel yard. 

O Spirit whose life was a Drama of Dreams, 
Taking leave of you here on this hillock, it seems 
To my sorrowful self that these larks in the sky, 
Sing a poet's "Farewell" to a rhymer's "Goodbye." 

THE SIMPLETON 

I am as one with foolish ways 

Made simple by the moon-light's beams, 

Demanding dreams from empty days 
That come and pass like empty dreams. 

And so I am as one away 

Among the Fairy Folk, until 
Some Sorrow comes to fill the day 

I thought that only Joy could fill. 

THE THREE FRIENDS 

O Bard of God and sacred bird 

Of that pure Isle where saints repose, 

My Guardian Angel, having heard 
Your heavenly song, from me arose 

To sing with you before the Throne ; 

And since we left that holy sod, 
One longs again to see Tyrone 
And One to soar in song to God. 
[ 109 1 



TO THE ANGEL AXEL 

Angel of dole, 

Who stood on guard 
At the soul 

Of Columkille the Bard, 

Your Brother heard 

No sadder sound 
In the word 

Of Adam exile bound, 

Than the echoed woe 

Of your ward and saint 
O'er the flow 

And ebb of the Foyle's complaint, 

When by command 

He left his coast, 
And a band 

Of earth's Angelic Host, 

Who sang to him 

Their sweet goodbye, 
In the hymn 

I've heard, when even I 

Left Erinn's shore 

Against my will, 
As did of yore 

Your Columkille. 

[no] 



THE GREATEST FEAST 

The greatest Christian feast by far, 

— Since Christmas only has a star — 

Is Easter with its sun, without 

Which Christmas would be dark as Doubt. 



BARONSCOURT 13 

In Baronscourt the loughs are laid 

Like massive mirrors on the lawn, 
Where. Nature peeping from the shade 

Beholds Her beauty partly gone. 
For Baronscourt is now a Park 

Of tidy places in Tyrone, 
Where many tumbled ruins mark 

Our fathers' gardens long unsown. 

In Baronscourt the pheasant cock 

Each morning crows to break his heart, 
While the pretty woodland-pigeons flock 

To scatter soon and pair apart. 
And though the deer in timid herds 

Raise not their heads to sniff the wind, 
I fear for all the native birds 

That sing among their foreign kind. 

In Baronscourt the ancient farms 

Are now the meadows of a Lord, 
Whose mansion stands among the charms 
[in] 



Once guarded by a chieftain's sword. 
For the famous little island fort 

Of the haughty Clan Mac Hugh, adorns 
The great domain of Baronscourt 

'Neath the Castle of the Abercorns. 

O Baronscourt your Saxon name 

Is not as sweet as Lurgymore, 
Nor are your flowers, nor is your fame 

As fair as in the days of yore. 
For much within your Lordship's wall 

Belongs to our brave fathers, bred 
Where the constant cuckoos call and call 

In vain to God and the angry Dead. 

THE BOOTED HENS 

In secret places strange and wild, 
E'en to the wonder of a child, 
The Wee Folk cobble little boots, 
For birds that scratch the lusmore's roots. 

And every night the Leprahaun, 
Must finish ere the Streak of Dawn, 
A pair of boots for every hen, 
That scratches on the graves of men. 

Now Katty Shields in Kilnagrude, 
One morning went to feed her brood, 
And rinding all the hens arrayed 
In boots, she cursed the cobbler's trade. 

[112] 



And since that morning long ago, 
She is always out at heel and toe, 
In a pair of brogues, the like of which 
Might well be found behind a ditch. 

For she had cursed the Leprahaun, 
Who finishes before the dawn, 
A pair of boots for every hen 
That scratches on the graves of men. 



A LABORER 

I knew an humble working-man, who was 
A credit to his conscience and its laws 
Which he obeyed — the spirit and the letter — 
Nor could a learned saint do any better. 



TO FATHER PROUT 

(Author of "The Bells of Shandon") 

O Jester of the droll Hibernian tongue, 

Huge Grecian brow and dim Horatian eyes, 
I saw the grave from which you shall arise 

In Shandon's shade, while the bells of which you 
sung 

So sadly, that the Gael has heard them rung 
In exiled dreams, were shaking from the skies 
Such music as no dreamer could surmise, 

For they seemed to me as though in Heaven hung. 

[ 113 J 



'Twas morning; and the songful larks had shared 
Their words among the many-noted chimes, 
When suddenly the choir ceased, and I, 
A lyric-lover, having well compared 

Its efforts with your own immortal rhymes, 
Proclaim your famous song a plagiary. 

A WATERFORD WONDER 14 

The falling stars forever croon 
A dirge for Adam's Paradise, 
Which comes a-down the distant skies 

In the mirrored ruins of the moon 

That I have seen slip through the air, 
Behind the Comeragh Hills. And old 
Shaun Beg once told me he was told 

That the casted moons are lying there 

Beyond the mountain-meadow bars : 
"For the broken fields of Paradise," 
Said he, "must lie beneath the skies 

That weep so many falling stars." 

THE SONG-MAKER 

From the Mind to the pencil and paper, 
How long is the journey? How far 

Have the thoughts of me travelled? O Taper, 
You know as my sun-shining star. 

[114] 



From the Soul to the Song of the poet, 
Was the journey a month or a mile? 

Ah ! Girl, I know not, but I know it 
Was sweet being with you the while. 



THE RED-BREAST 

The plaintive robin is so good, 
And sings so sadly at his nest, 

He must remember the Holy Rood 

From which he came with a crimson breast. 

But what he sang or what he wore 
Before he flew against the Cross, 

E'en Nature's Self cannot restore, 
Nor does his grief concern the loss. 



THE MESSENGERS 

Michael daily labors 
With but a single wing, 

Bearing as his burden 
Justice from the King: 

But Gabriel is pinioned 

With double wings unfurled, 

For Mercy passes Justice 

On their journey to this world. 
[115] 



THE TWO MOUNTAINS 

When falls the twilight, my spirit wanders 

To a bardic Isle through a cloud of dreams, 
Where the quiet moon like a poet ponders 

On the stars that lie in Tyronian streams. 
For the nights are still as they were in Erinn, 

With their flowing silver in brook and rill, 
And the whin-bush wears what it has been wearing 

'Tween Bessy Mountain and Beauty Hill. 

And there at dawn I have stood astounded, 

As the lark arose with his falling tune, 
Which o'er the Strule's quiet valley sounded 

Like a slumber song for the dreamy moon ; 
While the powdered crystals and pearls, blended 

In mist and haze, formed a mystic grill, 
Between my soul and the sun suspended 

O'er Bessy Mountain and Beauty Hill. 

The linnets green and the tuneful thrushes 

Sing from the dawn to the star-lit sky, 
While in the meadow the corn-crake hushes 

His lonely song as I pass him by. 
The yellow plovers fly o'er the heather, 

And the whistling notes of a golden bill 
Reveal the black-bird and his mate together, 

'Tween Bessy Mountain and Beauty Hill. 

But the twilight tunes in that river valley 

Are dewy sweet to my dreamy soul, 
While the cuckoos linger and the robins dally 

[116] 



In the evening shade for to sing their dole ; 
The Bluish-Grey and the Scarlet-Breasted, 

Which call and mourn in a music shrill, 
For the clans that rest where they long have rested 

'Tween Bessy Mountain and Beauty Hill. 

THE GRAVE OF MICHAEL DAVITT 

(Straid, Co. Mayo) 
O Womanly Erinn, your bardic rehearsal 

Of troubles and sorrows are private to you, 
But what of the joy that is now universal 

For those who won Freedom, the Rus and the 
Jew? 
And what of the Man who went over full-hearted, 

To carry his cause to a nation afar, 
Where the snow-drift that covered the bloody de- 
parted, ^^ 
Could well mmk the ermine that covered the 
Czar? 

O what of the Patriot sprung from your peoples, 

Who dreamed of a cause that shall circle the 
earth, 
And what of this victory now and the steeples, 

That surely have bells in the land of his birth : 
And what of the Jews who shall journey Tomorrow, 

As pilgrims from Kieff to where Davitt is laid? 
O Woman arise from your own private sorrow 

For the clan that bore Christ has a prophet in 
Straid. 
[117] 



TO OSSIAN 

Great Ossian of the thunder-tossing horde 
That fought behind the echoes of your song, 
Your death-defying music is as strong 

As when it strengthened Finn's, your father's 
sword ; 

As when it brought the chieftain from his board 
To meet the terrifying Danish throng; 
Nor has it grown the weaker through these long 

Sad years which England lengthened with her cord ! 

For we who sang your poems in the Dun, 
Are the military masters on the slopes 
Gained by the piper's music and our nerve : 

God knows the many battles that we won 
For Presidents, Kings, Emperors and Popes 
And yet — O Son of famous Finn — we serve. 

THE PARISH POET 

Among the old things, of the old times, 

Sits Gracie O'Gara, who sings 
My own rhymes. 

For I set a song, to the light tread, 
Of Gracie's daughter, who long 
Has been dead. 

Well was it made, in truest praise, 
Of a light-hearted little one, laid 
Where the hares graze. 

[118] 



And as sweet as Her voice, is that song to me, 

When her old mother chooses her choice 
From all poetry. 

If it were not for Her, and the spoiling of it, 

'Tis I would be selling it where 
It would bring a good bit. 

But the music is much like a cuckoo's call, 

And 'tis only an old woman's touch, 
That could serve it at all. 

So the song of my heart shall never cease, 

'Till the lips of an neighbor shall part 
In dumb peace. 

For among the old things, of the old times, 

Sits Gracie O'Gara, who sings 
My own rhymes. 

IRELAND OF THE TWILIGHTS 

When tuneful twilights hush the skies to sleep 
And set the waiting stars to active dreams, 
I wander to the Wraith- World of your streams, 

Green hills, and mountains wonderfully steep. 

A World in which the boughs of willows sweep 
Their supple forms around the moon-light's 

beams ; 
A ghostly World, in which each brooklet seems 

Part of the slowly-moving starry deep. 

[119] 



But when the dew of Heaven's nocturnal Grief 
Has freely spent its splendor on your strand, 
I come, as comes your own soul to the Dawn's 

Untroubled West, with stories past belief 

And dreams unknown, save in that Shadow-Land 
Where died your Poets singing like the swans. 

THE POEM-PRAYERS OF THE GAEL 

The Lord has many Lilies rare, 
That grow like orchids in the air 

On the branches of the Knowledge Trees, 
While the Winds are blowing from the Woods. 

Nor is there any blossomed bough, 
Nor is there any flower now 

On earth arrayed like one of these, 
In the Breezes blowing from the Woods. 

For they are Lilies of the Word, 

Being poem-prayers from which the Lord 

Still gathers the perfumeries, 
That the Winds are blowing from the Woods. 

TYRONIAN THOUGHTS 

Thanks be to God for the blood that should rule 

The Tyronian vale of the long river Strule, 

That was wealthy with salmon and wonderful 

pearls, 
Ere the Red hand of Royal O'Neill was an Earl's ! 

[ 120] 



Thanks be to God that the flowers of Tyrone 
Still bloom on the graves that her children should 

own; 
That the grass of Ardstraw is as sacred and green, 
As when blest by its bishop the saintly Eugene ! 

O thanks be to God for the Faith that is still 
As true as when taught by the pure Columkille, 
To the heart of a people still strong at the core, 
Though the Red hand of Royal O'Neill is no more ! 

THE SNAKE 
Behold the symbol of what must fall ! 

Cold of blood in the sun-beams, numb 
For numerous days, and cursed to crawl 
The earth while big with venemous young. 

The symbol of Pride and Satan dumb 
With the evil gift of a double tongue. 

BY THE RIVER SUIR 

God's love to the girl 

Who once gave me a drink, 
As clear as a pearl, 

From the broad river's brink : 

May her heart stay as pure 
As that sweet river's source, 

That her soul like the Suir 
May do good on its course ! 
[121] 



A LITTLE STORY 

Here is a little story 

I found beneath the moss 
Of many years, and a hoary 

Dead vine on a Gaelic cross. 

"Pray for the soul of Francey 

O'Carolan, unknown 
Save in the Realm of Fancy, 

Here lie his flesh and bone." 

"And for the soul of his Lover 

As a Dream beside him here, 
Unknown to all save the plover 

And the lark of their native sphere;" 

"Which is the Realm of Fancy 

Where Rosaleen, unknown, 
And the fabled poet Francey 

O'Carolan have flown." 

"That God may send them pardon 

By the buoyant birds above, 
For returning to His Garden 

Of Eden with their love;" 

"And that this stone's protection 

May keep the Dream beside 
The Dust, till the Resurrection 

Of the Bard and his secret Bride." 

[122] 



Here are the verses hoary 

With moss I found on a stone, 

And I would that the cross, the story, 
The grave and the dust were my own. 

THE WINDOW OF ST. AGNES 

Agnes, whom the artists paint 
With all their many colors warm, 

I would but see you as a saint 
Within the modest marble's form. 

For though this chapel-window bright, 
— Being painted well in ruby red — 

Now woos the sun's symbolic light, 

With the Martyr's crimson that you bled, 

I would not have your form in these 
Rich gaudy garments, for your pure 

An. 'childish face seems ill at ease, 
Among the raiments that allure. 

So Agnes, I would only see 

Your image in that marble's form, 

Which the whiter gleams with modesty 

When the shining Sun would make it warm. 

HOPE'S SONG 

Silent is the dark 

Before the sun-beams come, 

Yet if it were not for the lark, 
The dawn would be as dumb, 
[123] 



And thus my soul would be 

As dark and still as night, 
If 'twere not for the minstrelsy 

Of Hope that sings of Light. 

BY WAY OF THE WIND 

By way of the wind my soul would speed 
To the river Strule, where rush and reed 
Conceal the moor-cock and the hen, 
And the rusty helmets of moldy men. 

By way of the wind my soul would go 
To the river Strule, where its wavelets flow 
O'er the ancient fords unknown to all, 
Save the dead O'Donnells from Donegal. 

By way of the wind my soul would sail 
To the river Strule, be it breeze or gale ; 
But she is bound and the winds are free 
To take but a song from the soul of me. 

THE PROVINCES 15 

O God that I 

May arise zvith the Gael 
To the song in the sky 

Over Inisfail! 

Ulster, your dark 

Mold for me ; 
Munster, a lark 

Hold for me ! 



[ 124] 



Connaght, a caoine 

Croon for me ; 
Leinster, a mean 

Stone for me! 

God that I 

May arise with the Gael 
To the song in the sky 

Over Inisfail! 



[125] 



NOTES 

(^Ballad of the Bees — Liber Flavus Fergusi- 
orium, a 15th. MS. in Royal Irish Academy con- 
tains the germ of this story, though it is only partly 
followed in the ballad. Tradition has it that St. 
David of Wales sent the first bees to Erinn by St. 
Baroc, who kept them at his cell near what is now 
the ruined church of Kilbarrick just outside of 
Dublin. But the Brehon Laws were written cen- 
turies before Baroc's time and they go into minor 
particulars relative to bees. 

( 2 ) ceanaban — cannaban, the bog cotton. 

( 3 ) rann — a verse. 

( 4 ) Clodagh — A little stream that flows beneath 
the ancient oaks of Curraghmore, Waterford. 
Lusmores — lusmor. Often pronounced with the 
English plural sound as in the text. It is the great- 
est fairy plant of the Gael. 

( 5 ) lios — a circular fort. Rath — also a round 
earthen fort. Pronounced raw in Gaelic but rath 
in many districts. Cailin Deas — pretty girl. 

( 6 ) Francey O'Kane. A street ballad was writ- 
ten on his death, but it seems to have been lost and 
forgotten with the exception of two lines and it is 
at the end of this verse that they are now. Men 
of the Creeve — The O'Cahans or O'Kanes were 
called in the old times Fir-na-craibhc, i.e., the men 

[126] 



of the Creeve from a place called Eas Craibhe and 
now known as Cutt's Fishery in Keenaght Barony, 
Derry. 

( 7 ) standing stones — On the side of the mountain 
south of Newtownstewart, Tyrone. Grave battles 
were fought here in the old days and the people do 
be saying that those who lie there are all O'Neills. 

( 8 ) sidhe — shee, the fairies or Good People. 

( 9 ) siubhloir — a traveller, but in the North- West 
it is often applied to a peddler. 

( 10 ) The Mother's Revenge. — This historical 
event happened in the year 1439. The two bodies 
were burned in the hut and the whole, being re- 
duced to ashes, formed a mound which was still in 
evidence fifty years ago a little south of the ruins 
of Inch Castle. 

( n ) The Green Road. — Sixty years ago it was as 
grey as the dust of a town, but the farmers were 
evicted from the district and their ruined homes are 
now the haunts of Scottish deer. 

( 12 ) Grave of Gerald Griffin. — In the little ceme- 
tery of the Irish Christian Brothers, Our Lady's 
Mount, Cork. 

( 13 ) Baronscourt. — The castle and domain of the 
Duke of Abercorn of the House of Hamilton. 

( 14 ) casted moons — It was in the Gaelic that 
Shaun told the tale and it is what he said that the 
moons were casted, shed, or thrown ofr" in process 
of growth. 

( 15 ) caoine — a cry or lamentation. 
[127] 



It is here that the book ends 

and it is here that a prayer is asked 

for the soul of the scribe who finished it, 

in his native New York, 

on the Feast of Mura of Fahan, 

1917. 



[128] 



Hi? 






* *&BW cj> ^ * 




















bV 



'^O 1 



<> •• • » * j.0 






















'o . * 






O N ° -^ 



« I 1 



/ ^ 



.<b^ 



HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 
^ DEC 88 






<<» » 








